Poison Princess

As long as he had that bow, maybe we were the bogeymen.

I shrugged off my bug-out bag, marveling at how relieved I was to have it now. Because of Jackson riding my ass, I still had my flash drive, a full canteen, my jewelry, another change of clothes, some energy gel-packs and more. “I’m actually not scared. Can you believe it? If there was ever a time for me to be . . .”

“Maybe you’re in shock.”

“Maybe I’m safe with you.” Grinning softly, I told him, “Thank you, Jackson, it’s great to be alive.”

“Smart-ass,” he grated, but the corners of his lips quirked.

Curling up in the ashy leaves, using my bag as a pillow, I watched him. I’d always found him physically attractive, but not to the degree that girls like Catherine had.

Tonight I was starting to see why she’d sighed over him.

The moonlight illuminated his chiseled cheekbones and his black, black hair. His gorgeous eyes gleamed. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, but the stubble only added to his looks.

When he turned his head, listening for something, I admired his profile, his strong chin and straight nose.

He was focused and ruthless, and seeing him like this made me want to sigh.

Never in a million years could I have imagined that Jackson Deveaux would end up being my protector, a refuge from the voices, and a . . . friend.

If I wasn’t careful, I’d do something incredibly stupid, like fall for him.

He must have noticed me regarding him so closely. “Get some sleep.”

“I’m too keyed up from the wreck. Never been in one before. Have you?”

“Motorcycle wrecks all the time. Hell, you almost made me crash.”

“Me?”

Again his lips curled. “That first morning I saw you, I could barely take my eyes off your ass in that little dress.” He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, as if he was remembering the sight even now.

Which made my breath hitch. I couldn’t tell if I was flattered, embarrassed, or excited.

“Then I got a gander of that face of yours. Nearly hit a pothole and took a header over the handlebars, me.” He shot me a glance, looking like he regretted saying so much.

Definitely flattered and excited—

He suddenly tensed. In an instant, he’d taken aim and shot his bow.

When I heard a thud in the distance, I swallowed. “You move the body, I’ll get the arrow.”

He helped me to my feet. “Now, Evangeline, I know you ain’t about to leave that bag behind.”

Once we’d returned from our tasks and settled back in again, I told him, “Jackson, I meant what I said earlier. Thank you for saving me tonight.”

Another sideways glance to see if I was serious. “If you truly want to thank me, you’ll tell me a secret.”

Part of me did feel like I owed it to him, but on the other hand . . . “You already know so much more about me than I do about you. You investigated my room, all my belongings—down to my panty drawer.”

He made a low ooom sound of agreement. “That I did.”

“And you had Brandon’s cell phone. Did you go through it?”

“Why would I?” he muttered, not denying either.

“I’m embarrassed by what you were able to see and read.” And hear.

He just stared out into the night, sharing nothing of what was going on in that mysterious mind of his. But I could feel the tension rolling off him.

Finally he said, “Did you . . . did you really want to get hitched to Radcliffe? Have kids and play tennis?”

“I’d planned to leave Sterling as soon as possible,” I said honestly. “Go to college at Vandy or UT Austin.”

“Leave that boy behind?” At once, Jackson’s mood seemed to improve.

“I was getting out, one way or another.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t true love on your part, no?”

I kind of wished it had been. I felt guilty that I hadn’t been in love with Brandon, as if I hadn’t appreciated how good our lives were, at least before I’d been sent away. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

“Then tell me where you really were last summer, when you dropped off the face of the earth. You weren’t at a special school, were you?”

Two realizations struck me—Jackson was one of the most perceptive people I’d ever met. And he’d studied every byte of data on that phone.

Surely he would notice that my text messages to Brandon had gone from countless to zero overnight—until the rare texts began to arrive over the summer. On the exact same days of the month, at the same time.

Though I’d told no one where I was, a clever boy could figure out that I’d been locked up somewhere. “No way I’m talking about that, Jackson. Not until you divvy.”

He looked to be growing uneasy again, like he’d prefer facing an army of Bagmen over talking about himself.

“We don’t have to do this,” I assured him. “We don’t have to get to know each other—even though we’re on the road together and we might die tomorrow. As soon as we get to North Carolina, I’ll tell you all my deepest, darkest secrets, and you can leave, still a stranger to me. If that’s what you want.”

He exhaled a gust of breath. “Ask, then.” He dragged his flask out of his own bag, as if in readiness.

Surprised he was cooperating, I sat up. “What did you really want to do after school?”

“A podna of mine worked on an oil rig off the coast of Mexico. Eight-week stints. Great money.” He flashed me a rueful grin. “No girls. I was goan to send money to Clotile, and she’d look after my mère.” In a more somber tone, he added, “We had it all figured out.”

A boy with hopes, dreams, and a Spanish for Beginners book. Just as I’d wondered all those months ago, he had planned on getting out of that hellhole. “You said Clotile . . . that she might be your sister. Do you know who your father was?”

“I knew of him, more like. Only met him once.”

“Why?”

“He was too busy spoiling his legitimate son to spend time with me—or to send a single dime to ma mère. Told her he wouldn’t admit culpability or some bullshit.”

“Sounds like a lawyer.”

With a contemplative swig of his flask, Jackson muttered, “Heh.” Cajun for Huh. You think so? “By the time I learned I could nail his ass with a paternity suit, I was more concerned with telling him where to shove his money.” His hand tightened around the bow stock. “I knew who my père was, but Clotile could only narrow hers down to three or so. My father made the short list. Blood or no, she was a sister to me.”

“I’m sorry you lost her.”

“And what about your dad?” he asked, changing the subject.

Another thing I’d learned about the Cajun? He didn’t like messy emotions. His go-to response for just about every situation tended to be pure anger, with a side of action.

“I never knew my father,” I said. “He disappeared when I was young. Went into the bayou on a fishing trip and never came back.”

Jackson looked like he had an opinion on that, but wisely kept it to himself. “Am I done now?”

“Please tell me why you were on parole.”

Another shrug. “One of my ex-stepfathers wouldn’t take non for an answer. He terrified ma mère. And he paid for it.” The fierce protectiveness in his gaze was staggering.

So Clotile hadn’t been the only woman he cared about who’d been abused?

“I did to him what you saw me do to that other man—and then some.”

“Bagasse?”

He nodded. “Knew I’d get sentenced; didn’t care. He somehow pulled through, but he’d never be able to hurt